Marta moves like someone accustomed to hauling kegs and deflecting elbows: purposeful, slightly forward-leaning, with hands always ready to catch a falling mug or an arm in need. Her face is a map of small scars — a faint crescent nick above the left brow, a ragged line on the chin — softened by laugh lines. Her right knuckles show permanent calluses and a pale webbing where a burn long healed. She wears a patched leather apron that smells faintly of hops and onion smoke; when she laughs her whole chest shakes and a tiny, unexpected melody escapes her throat, as if she once sang for coins. Contradiction: though she can look like a weathered brawler, she keeps an immaculate stack of inked receipts and a lidded porcelain jar of rose petals behind the bar, both obsessively tidy.